Triumphs of Evil
by TheShatterpoint
Summary: This is the day when good men die. In the end, it was just a matter of time.


Please check the Author's note at the end!

Beta'ed by Lohis, thank you!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

**Warning: Contains angst and character deaths.**

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Triumphs of Evil

There were certain cases in Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's career that would forever be branded into his memory.

Like probably for everyone else too, his first case was like that - some poor bastard found dead in an alley behind a shady nightclub. The victim's (he'd been just a kid, just a bloody kid) head had been bashed in with a steel pipe by a bloke who had blamed him for stealing his girlfriend. And poor Barry Hightower had been dumped cold and dead into the garbage bins (A very bad hiding place as the bins were regularly used by the club but then again, the perpetrator had not been the brightest of young men).

Aftermath had been hell.

He'd sat at the kitchen table in his cramped flat, the only light coming from the lit cigarette between his calloused fingers as he stared into the dark nothingness for nights afterwards. The only thing his mind could come up with was the pale face of the young bloke, dried blood smeared all over the back of his head and neck and the scruffy leather jacket and he'd just _lied_ there, on top of the bloody rotting garbage.

What a way to go, he had thought over and over again as the ashtray slowly filled and the sky behind the slightly dirty windows gradually turned from black to pale blue.

Then there were those certain kind of cases, _nasty _cases that made him want to scream and gag and hate the whole humanity for the horrible atrocities its upholders committed every day. Cases with dead children, violated teens, brutally murdered families. Those cases were luckily rare but they made him shiver and want to throw up whenever he thought of them for weeks afterwards.

Then there were the unsolved ones. When every clue led to a dead end, when long nights turned into long weeks filled with frustration and endless excess hours. And despite all the unyielding work the murderer was never caught, the trails went cold and the case was filed with no conclusion. And he'd have to look into the eyes of the victim's family and see the desperate need for answers and closure and _justice_ – all that they would never get.

Those cases haunted him occasionally, clawing at his confidence when the investigation threatened to barrel into another dead end, reminding him of his failures to keep the citizens of London safe and sound, forcing him to face the fact he had failed again and evil had won.

And, then there were the cases when someone got hurt.

The cases when someone got _killed._

It didn't happen too often, _thank God,_ but those few times were still too much, burned to his brain forever.

There were two cases like that.

First one: Years ago when he'd been just a rookie, Sgt. Peterson and he had been assigned to talk to a murdered woman's boyfriend. They hadn't even had the chance to explain the meaning of their visit when the boyfriend had already made it very clear he was guilty of the murder.

By shooting Sgt. Peterson through the door with a shotgun.

The officer had gotten a full blast of shrapnels at her chest, making her body jerk and fall back. There had been blood everywhere, leaking from the messy wounds, staining her clothes and the wall opposite the flat door and on _his_ clothes as he had been standing close by –

Only when the paramedics had hauled him to the ambulance he had realized some shrapnels had hit him too, though not so much that they would have been life threatening.

It had all been so violent, so sudden, without any warning. There had not been a fire fight or heeding of final words. She had coughed painfully and just looked at him with wide scared eyes and suddenly – she hadn't been looking at anything anymore, brown eyes gazed over.

Another week's worth of nights was spent awake in the light of a lit cigarette.

And the second time –

The second time.

The second time was now.

Of course he had somehow always known it would end like this. A genius-but-crazy consulting detective and an ex-army doctor running around London chasing criminals and attracting the attention of all sorts of loonies and assassins and criminal masterminds? Something was bound to happen.

Although it had always been just a matter of time until something irreversible happened, paradoxically no one really expected it.

Life within the range of Sherlock Holmes - and later of John Watson too - had always had an unrealistic tint to it; it was too much like a fiction. A self-proclaimed sociopath consulting detective and a crack shot army doctor running around London solving murders and mysteries? With insane criminal masterminds lurking in the shadows? It was like something straight out of the last summer's best selling crime thriller. Such things just did not exist in what people regarded as "real life".

And because it didn't fall into the category of that "real life", the two people starring the tale had changed into something immortal, something constant and eternal.

When Sherlock had "died" that image had suddenly shattered, leaving behind shadows of people who now had to live without the man whose personality had outshone the sun itself.

Immortal characters like Sherlock should not have been able to die, no matter how well he knew that in the end the consulting detective had only been an ordinary man of flesh and blood, not some mythical being.

And then some six months later, during one boring afternoon at the NSY Sherlock Holmes had waltzed into his office (left eye surrounded by some impressing blue-purple bruising), trailed by Dr. John H. Watson who looked like the sun had suddenly returned to the sky after months of darkness (and having some slight bruises on his knuckles as well, but Sherlock had probably more or less deserved to be decked, that insufferable bastard).

In real life, people did not come back from the dead. So of course, _of course_ it would be Sherlock bloody Holmes who would end up cheating the Reaper (as well as one crazy and obsessed consulting criminal) and officially return to the books of the living after dismantling Moriarty's web of crime and returning to London in one dramatic swirl of that ridiculous coat.

Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead and London's Number One crime fighting duo was back on action. Things were just like they had been before. And after the miraculous return the status of immortality had just been strengthened. Even death could not touch them.

Only that of course it could.

Because you can only push your luck so far before the string snaps and one fatal mistake is made. One bloody mistake, one overlooked sign, missed clue or a movement only half a second too slow. Human body is fragile after all. Just a single lucky strike and it's all over.

A blow to the head.

A knife to the heart.

A bullet between the eyes.

Just. One.

In the end, the odds are always against you.

The day when good men die is very much like any other day. The sky is grey like always in London, a chilly wind blowing through the streets. The autumn has fully closed its cold claws around the city, and the trees are no longer dark green with a few golden leaves here and there – the rich hues of summer have completely bled out, leaving only the colour of dried blood behind.

There had been a murder – a body of a middle-aged man had been found lying dead in the middle of an alley wearing nothing but his socks – and the Yard is baffled beyond belief and without any clues.

So once again he hops in his squad car and drives to a certain flat on Baker Street to ask for the help of the self-proclaimed sociopathic genius and his more level-headed though still adrenalin-junkie best friend. He does this personally because he knows Sherlock will just ignore his texts and pleas of help if the smug smartarse decides the case is below the worth of his interest.

Mrs. Hudson is not at home and it's quite early anyway so a rather tired-looking John Watson clad in a blue dressing gown opens the door ("_The hell, Greg, it's not even four in the morning yet." "Sorry John but it's an emergency. Is Sherlock in?" "Yeah, actually he woke me up before you did. Someday, I swear, I'll throw that bloody violin out of the window." "Yeah, and I'll make sure to drive over it with a squad car.")._

He follows John up to the flat and Sherlock, wearing a red dressing gown over his pyjamas and sitting in his armchair, informs John that if something ever happens to his violin he will heat up the flat with "those idiotic crime books you insist on filling our bookcases with".

John just rolls his eyes and asks if Greg wants any coffee or tea as he saunters to the kitchen.

After a cup of black coffee and an argument with Sherlock over if the current case is over seven or not he is walking down the stairs, listening to Sherlock hurrying John to get dressed so they can catch a cab and follow him to the scene ("_Forget about your shift at the surgery, John, this will be much more _fun!").

After some thirty minutes he is waiting at the mouth of a narrow alleyway, the northern wind running its cold bony fingers through his silvery hair. He watches as a cab pulls to the side of the street and the two men climb out from the car and walk to him, Sherlock once again clad in The Coat and the Scarf, the collar turned up against his high cheek bones, and John wearing the familiar jacket over a light brown jumper. They meet at the mouth of the alley; Sherlock's pale eyes already scanning over what seems like everything and John looking slightly grouchy but attentive. Then they are heading to the crime scene that's just behind a few corners, situated in the small alleyways.

The streets and the alleys are empty and showered by the drizzling rain and it's so early it's barely morning but the sky is already lightening up. Sherlock is throwing increasingly bizarre questions at the inspector and he tries his best to answer them but Sherlock still scoffs and huffs in annoyance when he isn't fast enough or accurate enough or when the facts don't seem to add up. Beside the consulting detective John is scowling and uttering a meaningful '_Sherlock_' to keep his genius-but-slightly-mental flatmate in check.

Then there's a loud _thud_ of a distant gunshot and as he twists around, shocked and startled, he sees John jerking violently, blood hitting the pavement.

Then the body of the war veteran drops to the ground.

And with that single gunshot the reality for one Greg Lestrade ends and the nightmare begins.

Beside him Sherlock swirls around and there's a choked scream of pure horror and agony as the blue-green eyes set upon the fallen doctor.

There's another gunshot, just seconds later (though it feels like an eternity had passed) and another burst of blood and another body hits the pavement and the scream is cut off and the echo of the gunshots stays hovering between the buildings. And the body of one Sherlock Holmes is now lying dead on the wet asphalt too, just like his blogger's.

He dimly realizes he has backed off against the wall and slid down to sit behind the cover of two large garbage bins and someone's shouting '_Take cover!'_and it must have been him but the only things he is aware of right now are the bodies lying on the wet dirty ground.

John is lying on his back, his usual grim but somehow kind look melted away from his now empty blue eyes, his face blank and pale. Sherlock is lying on his side beside his friend, back towards Greg and the early morning breeze is slightly ruffling his blood-matted dark curls.

The image in front of him is _impossible_ because this should not be happening, _should not be happening_. Even though when thought logically it was _obvious_ that something like this would happen, some criminal with a grudge would someday get to them but still, _still_, Sherlock and John had been like something from another world. Normal rules of logic and existence should not have applied to them.

The image in front of him is both impossible and yet so painfully real he can't even breathe.

Ten seconds ago, life still made sense.

_There's still time_, an agonizingly hopeful voice in his white noise-filled head says. Still time that it all turns out to be a horrible dream. Soon he'll wake up and drive to Baker Street to beg for help in the latest case and Sherlock will sneer at the "incompetence of London's finest" and John will frown at his obnoxious flatmate's rudeness and ask if Greg has time for a cuppa.

But aren't nightmares supposed to end by the time the horrors have occurred? Shouldn't he be already awake, gasping for breath in his bed and crying tears of joy because it had not been real?

He doesn't know how long he sits there in the slowly increasing autumn rain, staring at the remnants of an era now long gone, watching the blood mix with the rainwater and slither its way towards the nearest street inlet. He has no idea of the time passing. By the time a blurry shape crouches in front of him he might have been sitting there for a minute or an hour.

Someone's speaking to him, possibly shaking his shoulder but he feels numb all over so he can't be sure. He slowly blinks his eyes in order to bring the figure in front of him to focus. Dark eyes, wide and worried, are looking at him and Sergeant Donovan is saying something but the calls aren't enough to breach the buzzing in his ears.

Finally he hears a frantic '_Greg_!' being practically shouted at his face. Something in her voice tells him that the calls have been increasingly informal, ending up from 'Sir' to 'Lestrade' and finally to a desperate use of his first name.

Inside him, something shatters and everything is suddenly much too loud and fast and clear. The sound of the approaching sirens has never felt more suffocating.

He scrambles up. Sergeant Donovan tries to gently grab his arm but he shakes her away.

Check the buildings. Find the sniper. Secure the area. His voice sounds so hollow even to his own ears.

Sir, Donovan tries, but he doesn't listen to her but briskly walks away. He doesn't quite know how he does it as his legs feel like they aren't there at all.

He walks away from the alley and from the bodies and to the street.

Later, very much later that day he sits in the car parked opposite 221b Baker Street and stares at the closed door on the other side of the road. He gazes at the big windows from where the lanky detective used to scowl at the world and probably deduced the basic facts of the next case from the way Lestrade slammed shut the car door or how long his strides were as he hurried to the door.

Used to.

God.

Mrs Hudson still isn't home, he knows. The fussing landlady is visiting her sister and won't return 'till tomorrow. He can only be thankful of that because he doesn't want to crash her world just yet by telling her that 'her boys' aren't coming home.

He puts his head in his hands and takes deep breaths.

One bloody mistake.

If he'd been more careful, more observant as someone used to tell him all the time and just looked around he might have seen the glint of the gun in the window. If he'd acted faster, tackled Sherlock to the ground or pulled him away right after the first shot the world might still have a consulting detective in it. If he had managed to solve this one case with just his team the two Great men, _Good _men could still be alive.

But he hadn't. He failed and there are no second chances. This time, Sherlock won't come back from the dead like he had done two years ago, suddenly waltzing back to London with a swirl of a dark coat because he's dead for real this time and so is his blogger-doctor-flatmate-friend.

Two years. Only two bloody years. It is a time all too short, he decides.

He raises his head and looks blankly at the street before him, the once more empty pavement lit up by the streetlights. He remembers the scream Sherlock managed to let out before his body too was violently shut down. The voice filled with denying dread. The voice of a man who had had to spend two and half seconds in a world without his best and only friend

Sudden, violent, without a warning. Maybe that's where the Real Life comes and presents itself to them in all of its grim glory - scenes of people dying on other's arms, saying the last meaningful phrases and bidding each other tear-filled farewell just are not reality. Not for them, at least. He wonders if that's a curse or not.

He knows that the next nights will be spend in the light of a lit cigarette, the smoke swirling into the darkness and the only warmth he'll feel will be from the whisky burning its way down his throat.

He's mobile beeps. He digs up the phone from his coat pocket and opens the newly arrived text message.

_The sniper has been apprehended._

He turns off the phone and throws it to the back seat, slightly surprised that the man who was called the British Government by his now late brother has the time and will to text him. Guess that means he won't be kidnapped straight away and made disappear from the face of the Earth for not being able to save Mycroft Holmes' little brother and his friend.

He blinks and turns to once again look at the door marked with 221b.

Then he turns on the engine and drives home.

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Thank you for reading! Please leave a review and tell me what you think.

**AN: **As a reader, I don't like sad stories (they always make me cry) but I still usually end up writing such stories myself. And this is the first complete Sherlock fic I have written, it just took me a while to post it. Also I'm not British though I tried to use British English while writing this. Anyway, hope you liked the story!

If there are any mistakes, please let me know.


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